


Almost Told You

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Spark Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Words sometimes get muddled. Things come dangerously close to confessions.





	

It’s much too easy to just let his mouth run when they are entangled like this. He’s so consumed by sensation and sentiment; angry even as he lets himself be pushed back against the wall, irritated as he trails his claws across Starscream’s shoulders to caress a wing. Shifting a little where he sits, he tries to make himself more comfortable, leaning up slightly into the claws that wander over his front, alternately too rough and not touching nearly hard enough.

When he hisses wordlessly in pain as a claw presses sharply into a tender dent, so the edges of his plating press cruelly into the delicate wiring below, his mate offers a sneer of satisfaction. “This wouldn’t even be here if you listened to directions once in your slagging life,” his Commander purrs, taking the edge off the hurt with the stroke of a claw.

“Yeah,” Carrion growls back, snagging a claw in a small laceration in his mate’s armor, tracing it roughly. He knows that this particular mark came from laser fire that was aimed a little too well. He’d felt Starscream’s rage when he’d been grazed, had taken pleasure when retribution was meted out. “And if you weren’t so busy watching me, maybe _this_ wouldn’t be _here_.”

Mouth twisting into a snarl, reflecting the surge of rage Carrion felt push at him through their bond, the larger jet shoved him roughly into the wall. As always, he knows exactly how hard he can push, teasing the line between pain and pleasure as he puts stress on the small seeker’s wings. “Watching you is my _job_ ,” he rumbles, curling over his soldier and pressing their helms together. “Just as _yours_ is to obey me.”

There is something he plans to say to that; some snide thing about how duty never seemed like a real priority to the Air Commander, but what leaves his vocals instead is a low sound that’s almost laughter; a breathless wavering ‘haaa’. The claws on his abdomen have moved to dig against the plated armor of his chest; gripping the seam in a way that should hurt, but pulling in a way that feels too good to let him care. The gesture is crude and forceful, but something in him thrills at it; he parts the armor almost willingly, resisting just enough to make Starscream growl.

“Lucky I don’t rip you servo from circuit,” the older seeker hisses, tracing a sharp talon over a freshly revealed spiral of wiring. “Leave you broken somewhere where only I can get to you, where you can’t get in the way anymore.”

Carrion sneers at the words, despite the honest hint of malice he feels from his bonded, and forces himself to affect disinterest. There is nothing he can do about the way his engine revs, but he shifts back to rest lazily against the wall, posture signaling his obvious lack of concern. “You like my servos too much to rip them from anything,” he murmurs, voice teasing.

When the younger mech puts his hands around the back of the Starscream’s neck, the larger jet easily slips them, pulling away with a sound of irritation that Carrion can feel isn’t precisely real. Starscream will never admit it, but through their bond he can feel his mate is actually a little amused by his bravado.

Of course, he acknowledges, if he could sense that, then certainly Starscream can also feel how scared he was at that threat; how incredibly threatened he’d felt and subsequently, perhaps perversely, how excited he’d been. He shouldn’t, because they both know he’s a glutton for punishment when it comes from his mate, but he feels embarrassed by the realization.

As if in response to that flair of emotion, the other jet smirks faintly, dipping his claws further into Carrion’s chest. “Little else of you is worth liking,” he says maliciously, stroking firmly at the cables and delicate supporting structures of his chest, straying ever closer to his spark chamber. “Mouthy, arrogant little fool.”

He moves backward slightly, sliding his hands up to clutch at the smaller mech’s shoulders as he bends down and presses his face against his mate’s bared spark chamber. Engine purring, Carrion once again laces his claws against the back of Starscream’s head, enjoying the strangely pleasant sensation of denta scraping at him.

“You would be so easy to break,” his Commander rasps idly, voice vibrating gently against the delicate metal. Though Carrion shivers slightly, it’s more in pleasure than fear; their bond assuaging any doubt he might feel that the words are truly just so much talking.

Leaning back a little to make more room for the domineering jet, he bares himself willingly as the doors to his spark begin to part. “So break me,” he says boldly, as always feigning a lack of worry over the other’s words.

That earns a little laugh, though Carrion can barely hear it; Starscream dips his head down just as the doors to the smaller seeker’s spark chamber slide fully open. Greedily, he forces himself closer, denta closing on the brilliant light of his mate’s spark. Feeling the surge of energy rush through him, Carrion tosses his head back with a little yelp, reveling in the excitement he feels returned from his partner.

As reluctant as the larger jet is to allow any gentleness between them, he’s ever enthusiastic to bring them close like this. It’s strange to Carrion, who can occasionally feel echoes of his own want for comfort from his bonded, but he doesn’t question or pry because he trusts Starscream to know what’s best for them, even if he says he doesn’t.

When it comes to their relationship, he says a lot of thing’s he doesn’t mean, and more things that he really doesn’t even believe. Especially in moments like this, when they’re coming down off of rage and Starscream is on his knees in front of him, curling over him with his face buried in Carrion’s chest, mouth on his spark.

“Always so quick to say it,” he breathes, claws trailing lightly over the other mech’s helm and shoulders and wings, anywhere they can reach, “but you’ll never do it. You just want to make me scared, you think I’ll shut up if you threaten me… funny how it never works, but I _know_ you won’t do it, you’ll just – ahh – you’ll just _talk_ and – ngh – _talk_ about it b-but you’ll never… never…”

Optics shuttering in pleasure, he breaks off his vitriolic babbling with a gasp, feeling his Commander move in just the right way to send jolts of electric pleasure shooting through him. His engine revs and his back arches reflexively, and he suddenly can’t find his own words, can’t remember what he was trying to say.

He does it on purpose, Carrion thinks, and it’s probably at least partially true. Starscream has never been subtle about telling him to shut up, and Carrion will always ignore him. So yes, it’s entirely possible that the older mech might use his knowledge of Carrion’s response to certain stimuli to garner a moment of silence.

It follows, of course, that the small jet feels it entirely necessary to make sure he doesn’t _stay_ silent for very long. Even if he can’t figure out what it is he wants to say, he lets his mouth run, picking at random from a thousand half-processed ideas. And that’s good, it’s okay, because he can feel in the way the other mech’s claws tighten on his shoulders that it’s doing what he wants it to, that he’s got his Commander’s attention.

That’s all fine, to him, even when he’s no longer quite capable of keeping track of what he’s saying. Until, of course, he’s clutching close to Starscream, engine running unevenly as his spark pulses wildly under the larger jet’s ministrations, and he realizes that he’s about to say something very, very stupid. He catches it on a groan, metal whining as he twists slightly in Starscream’s embrace, so what comes out of him is, “ _Primus_ , I la – _ohh_ …” And even that is too close to the stupidity that just tried to sneak out of him.

For one terrifying moment, he thinks his mate knows exactly what he was about to say; the older mech pulls away, sitting up with a sneer to ask mockingly, “You _what_ , Carrion?”

Narrowing his optics with a smirk of his own, he lets his voice be as breathlessly aloof as it can manage, trying to ignore the surge of anxiety that chases through him. “I _liked_ that,” he hisses, “so of course you’re going to stop. Lazy.”

Starscream glares at the words, as Carrion knew he would, and is gratified to feel the young jet shiver at the expression. Despite the fact that by now both of them know that any anger from the other is only pretense, it is always satisfying to get a rise out of the temperamental seeker. “Lazy,” he repeats, lowering his voice into a sharp growl. “You call me lazy when all you do is _sit there_?”

He’s perfected some way of grasping for an emotion and forcing it through their bond, so the annoyance and irritation he feels at the slander can be honed to something that tricks Carrion into thinking he’s actually angry again, for however brief a moment. He sees it work in the smaller mech’s expression; in the widening of his optics and the slight opening of his mouth.

Before the little fool can say anything more, Starscream digs his claws into the other’s armor and flips their positions. It’s a difficult maneuver to pull off without hurting either of them, especially for two mechs with wing spans, but he pulls it off cleanly, smirking dangerously at Carrion’s gape of surprise. “Perhaps it’s time I make you work, scrapling.”

Carrion is built to be fast and slight, a mech to swoop in on the battle field and disappear before the enemy has a chance to aim, much less fire at him. Consequentially, his exterior looks delicate and breakable – the only thing that has ever saved him from appearing genuinely friable is his face. He’s always smirking or snarling, presenting a hard edge to the seemingly soft young jet.

Even when they argue, Carrion may be weaker, may become more visibly twisted and hurt by the exchange of words, but he never backs down. He fights every step of the way, parrying accusations and spitting venom, until Starscream shuts him up or leaves.

Only when Starscream is particularly cutting, when he manages to mingle argument and interfacing in just the right way, does the small seeker ever really look _fragile_.

Here, like this, when his words imply anger, potentially even danger, but his actions are only gentle, pleasing even when they may sting – only in this unbalanced display of ferocity and forgiveness does Carrion finally come undone.

“Well, sparkling?” He hisses, using his own claws on the seam of his armor, sliding the plates away easily. The green of Carrion’s optics brightens as the smaller jet focuses on the movement of his Commander’s claws, and Starscream feels a twisted pleasure at that captivation. “Show me how lazy I am. Share your energy.”

It’s all about control, at the core of what he’s doing here. Controlling the intensity of desire, controlling the compulsion to either throttle or coddle his mate… and, of course, it’s about controlling Carrion, who so vehemently refutes control.

And yes, he can feel the rush of spite from his bonded, relishes it because he wants nothing less from his soldier. If he were to back down or express any less spine, Starscream would want nothing to do with him.

Like most medics, Carrion’s fingers are slender and dexterous, and he’s innately capable of intensely delicate touch.  He’s also startlingly quick, even with the most refined motion; Starscream feels his engine kick into a higher gear when Carrion’s foreclaw suddenly is tracing down his spark chamber. “Are you finally admitting you’ve gotten old,” he purrs, laughing when the older seeker exhales a surprised noise of pleasure.

There isn’t time to rebuke, at least not right away, because what Carrion lacks in subtlety and finesse, he always makes up for in enthusiasm. This seems to go double when it comes to interfacing, for though he is at times graceless, his passion has often made up for it.

Certainly it works for him now, claws latched under the cracked seal of his mate’s spark chamber. As always, Starscream can’t help noting how bold – how innocuously sly – the other mech can be; the way his claws move on him should be painful, dangerous at the very least, but he commits to the actions too quickly for Starscream to voice a protest.

His claws, so clever and slight, slip through the still-parting doors to slide and caress and tease. As always, his eagerness to please draws absent sounds of approval from the larger mech, encouragement granted before Starscream can bite it back. He strokes and grips, twisting his wrist and rubbing with his palm, dragging the pleasure out thin enough that it’s almost agony… and he talks all the while.

“It’s okay, _Commander_ ,” He murmurs with a devious grin, dancing his claws over his mate’s spark. “If you’re feeling old and tired, I’ll take care of you. It’s the least I can do, since you’ve taken on the absolute _chore_ of watching me.”

Starscream growls and grinds up against that teasing hand, fighting for friction even as Carrion matches the move by withdrawing ever so slightly. He rasps an order for silence, annoyed by the younger mech’s antics even as he basks in the attention, trying to ignore the pulse of delight that accompanies Carrion’s low laughter.

Shifting slightly, the smaller seeker condescends to touch a little more deliberately as he moves in closer. “Ahh, but you prefer my bitching,” he purrs, optics flashing a brighter shade at the human vulgarity. “If I stopped now, you’d snap and snarl, drag me back down and get me going again – so much work for an old jet like you. Too much.”

It shouldn’t, because it only encourages the little glitch, but something about the words – maybe the fact that they’re actually at least partially true, which is novel between them when they’re in this mood – pulls a little sneer onto his face. His own claws, which have been resting on Carrion’s sides, slide upward; one to toy with the exposed wiring of the other’s chest and the other to grip the back of his neck, pulling him down close. “If you don’t shut up and get on with it,” he intones, voice almost gentle in it’s hush, “I will weld your mouth shut myself.”

As is expected, Carrion only laughs again, his expression vindictive and unimpressed despite the token flare of alarm the larger mech feels through their bond. With one last gentle caress, his hand leaves Starscream’s chest and he arches away for a moment, swatting  his mate’s claws away. He hisses something under his breath, something snide that Starscream decides not to bother hearing, because it’s better just to watch the slender jet twist above him, stroking gently at his own spark chamber to coax it back open.

Nothing about this is quite the way it should be. For two who have bonded as strongly as they have, who sync so cleanly and resonate so perfectly, they both fight the implication of the bond itself far too strongly. They resist closeness; even Carrion, who so often shoves himself in Starscream’s space – they use the smallest slip as fodder to bicker, to scratch and hiss so nothing between them will ever be easy, or simple, or neat.

More often than he should, he uses their bond to twist his mate, to catch the flaws in his emotional cover and drag them open. He enjoys – perhaps masochistically, since on some level it _does_ give him pain as well – making Carrion squirm, beating him down verbally when they fight until the younger jet can do nothing but shut up or apologize. And it’s harder and harder to get to that satisfaction,  but there is also something gratifying about feeling his bonded struggle, feeling the steel that runs through him and will not bend

Chest to chest now, he can feel his mate struggling against something, trying (and failing) to bite back words as they grind together. He enjoys way the smaller jet clutches against him and writhes, ignoring the pain that flashes through them both when Starscream’s claws catch on the edge of his plating and cut in, because the bliss of their mingling sparks is worth it.

With his optics offline in pleasure, head angled back so his babbling is aimed more at the vaulted ceiling than anything, Carrion really does look fragile. It’s something Starscream takes a perverse delight in; seeing the slight seeker start to crumble in his arms. He relishes knowing that, of all the creatures unfortunate to have ever spoken with or fought against Carrion, only he will ever see the other mech break down like this.

“You’re mine,” he growls, digging his claws into the smaller jet’s back and holding them hard together. He shouldn’t like the verb-less sound of mingled pain and pleasure the gesture earns him, but he does. “You think you’re clever, that you’re _winning_ something with your ever-lasting mouth and your stupid disrespectful actions, but what you’re not getting is that I _own_ you. You get away with it because I _let_ you.”

He can feel the way the words bite into Carrion, how he denies them and rebels against the idea even as a part of him acknowledges the truth to it. “No one _owns me_ ,” the younger mech grinds out, his own claws tightening on Starscream’s shoulders as he sways a little harder against him. “I’m autonomous, same as you, jerk-ass.”

It’s very likely the most coherent thing that he’s said in the last few hundred kliks, but his mind still feels hazy and strained. Starscream’s claws are distracting; holding him close and stroking lazily at his back and wings. Without thinking he’s trying to push closer, absently rocking against his mate and bringing their mingling sparks in and out of contact.

Despite the completely unnecessary way it drags the act out, they’re both enjoying it, and he feels a little thrill at being able to do that. All he wants – and Primus help him for it – is to make his Commander happy. The acknowledgement of this fills him with a sudden and intense loathing, the strength of which makes him feel literally sick, as if he’s taken with a sudden virus.

While he’s admitted to himself his own stupidity – that he’s actually in love with the dangerous, brilliant mech he’s lucky enough to be bonded to – recognizing it strikes him suddenly as horrible; love is a foolish thing, a stupid, soft, vulnerable thing to push into a relationship that’s already so volatile. He’s tried rationalizing the sentiment away as so much base encryption: he naturally responds as one flier to another, to the symmetry of Starscream’s build and a natural resonance in the electrical fields they both generate. It doesn’t help; emotionally, he’s allowed himself to become ensnared and dependent, his love literally becoming something like a sickness in his processor.  

As always, he can’t quash his distress well enough to mask it from his mate, feels a conflicting sense of  gratification – Starscream has never bothered to hide the fact that he likes getting a rise out of the smaller ‘Con – and a gentling of the hands on him. The dichotomy  of sentiment and action is perfect and complete, and he shudders slightly, moving a little more fervently, keeping their sparks together a little longer.

Starscream’s claws slip smoothly over the younger jet’s back, tracing over the more sensitive edges of his wings; amused by the way the other’s babble rises and falls in speed and pitch, shifting language on occasion as he passes back and forth from human curses to more lyrical Cybertronian phrases. As always the banter has shifted down to the mindless, the younger seeker no longer quite capable of coherent thought.

There is satisfaction in that, in the way the smaller seeker finally gives up resisting and succumbs, melting against him as their sparks fully merge. One claw comes up to absently rest on the back of Carrion’s helm when he rests it against Starscream’s shoulder, shivering and breathlessly muttering into his armor.

Something in this moment is always perfect, for all the fault littering the rest of their relationship. When they bond like this, completely yielding against one another, he can’t help the flood of positivity that rushes through him; a tide of euphoria that threatens to overwhelm good sense and makes him almost sympathetic to the soft things he experiences vicariously through his mate.

It _is_ a threat to logic, however; the deluge of satisfaction making it hard to talk without spouting something stupid. He manages to cover himself smoothly, but the sentiment almost expressed disturbs him; “See, my little medic,” he says, holding the small jet tight against him, “you know you’re mine.”

Carrion mumbles something only half coherent against his neck; either ‘no’ or ‘I know’,  and that’s enough to convince the Air Commander that his mate is far enough gone in his bliss not to have caught his slip. Which is good, because it would have been a lie, one cruel enough that even he doesn’t want to voice it.

To call Carrion ‘my love’ would imply some impossible thing that doesn’t exist – that can’t exist, at least not here and now, in the middle of a war where either or both of them could die at any given time. Love, he thinks as he holds tight to the smaller jet, is a poetic fantasy of an idyllic emotional state that simply cannot happen. There is no such thing as a Decepticon in love because to love another is to weaken one’s self. There is only the bond, a thing that balances weakness with innumerable strengths.

Gripping close to one another, all the rage and anger that preceded the act seem to finally wash away as they flood with each other’s energy, and that at least was good. They ride out the power surge locked together, and when it’s over, Starscream let’s Carrion remain sagged against his chest for a moment, moving only enough to slide his armor closed.

The younger jet mumbles something, and it takes a moment for the Air Commander to process it through the haze of their after glow, but it brings a smirk to his face as he shoves the smaller mech off him and climbs to his feet.

“I’m still not a medic, _Commander_ ,” is what the insolent scrapling says, grinning without malice at last.

It says enough of their current mental states that Carrion remains where he’s sitting and only laughs when Starscream responds, “Ahh, but you are _mine_.”   


End file.
